Palms

Ipecac; 2013

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Flash back a couple of years, and it seemed like Isis and Deftones were going to converge if they didn't collaborate first. On Isis' 2009 swan song Wavering Radiant, the Los Angeles band’s increasingly accessible and grandiose doom metal started to sound like blown-out Deftones instrumentals, whereas Deftones’ increasingly lush and knotty alt-metal could pass for compressed Isis. So Palms is a sensible pairing, a partnership between Deftones vocalist Chino Moreno and three members of Isis (drummer Aaron Harris, guitarist Cliff Meyer, and bassist Jeff Caxide) that promises a Postal Service-like mutual benefit: those responsible for the backing music get a tremendous profile boost, while the lead singer is granted a modicum of cred that wrongly escapes his main band, whose diverse and progressive catalog still gets stereotyped as caricatured teen angst. It's an exciting proposition for fans of both Isis and Deftones, but more because of what might result for the participating musicians than the resulting music. On Palms, the underlying parts fit together so smoothly that there's never any friction that could lead to a spark.

Based on advance single "Patagonia", Palms has been dubbed “dream metal”, which isn't very accurate: expect to temper your expectations based on the “metal” part, which is clearly tacked on due to reputation. Palms never rocks, at least not in a way that places physical demands on the listener. Moreover, while the lugubrious tempos and luxurious production ensures there’s always presence and body to Palms, there isn’t much heft. In fact, fast forward to “Tropics” and see how literal Moreno gets with the lyrics: “I kiss you goodbye/ And release in the sky/ I stare in your core/ As you rush from the shore.” Whereas Deftones' “Knife Prty”or “Romantic Dreams” maintained an edge of consensual danger that allowed both sensuality and sexuality, "Tropics" suggests Moreno may be using Palms to follow his makeout music muse to an endpoint of chillwave.

Which is promising in a sense; at least you know Palms isn’t entirely redundant. But it’s more so than you might think. Glistening opener “Future Warrior” isn’t all that far off from Deftones’ more sensitive and balmy recent work-- think “Entombed” from Koi No Yokan, “Sextape” from Diamond Eyes. But without as much verse/chorus guidance, the six songs on Palms often stretch out past seven minutes, taking as much time as possible to get nowhere in particular. The titles are more new age than nu-metal, so it’s obvious they’re meant to accompany some sort of spiritual journey rather than guide you through a visceral one.

It’s the sort of work most would call “exploratory," except both parties are locked into defined and familiar roles from the very beginning. Meyer can spin silvery riffs at will, slicked with delay and reverb, pinging around the stereo field. But once you’ve heard him do it once on “Future Warrior", you’ve more or less heard Palms in its entirety. The only notable shifts in texture are the result of additional delay and reverb, such as the anti-gravity, post-rock reverie that closes out “Antarctic Handshake” or the encroaching humidity achieved on “Tropics”.

Moreno is every bit as complicit. While his whispery pillow talk makes Deftones stand out among their mainstream rock peers, which remain oddly neutered or disturbingly macho, Palms proves context is key for him on multiple levels. Even the most ardent Deftones fans will admit Moreno’s only got one move in this mode, and that’s to basically rewrite “Change (in the House Of Flies)”, floating a couple of longing, breathy notes that can sound like they’re being filtered through a random pitch generator. His melodies are typically impossible to hum along with, but they're extremely effective while juxtaposed with gnarled riffs, serving as a setup for a knee-buckling chorus, or as a leadup to using his preferred vocal EQ'ing that sounds like phone sex over a walkie-talkie.

These moments of catharsis or even contrast never arrive, and less than halfway through, Palms is so entrenched in a specific mood that the songs themselves become interchangeable. Whether out of mutual respect or just a stubborn adherence to a preordained ideal, no one involved does much to push each other; when Moreno allows himself a scream on “Mission Sunset", it feels overly cautious-- his backing band doesn’t follow suit. This isn’t meant to foster some debate about the superiority of Deftones over Isis, though the former is far more suited to enhancing Moreno’s strengths. The unfortunate truth is that Palms isolates and expands upon some of the least interesting attributes of its creators.

Still, Palms is an admirable effort that’s entirely within Moreno’s M.O.: his first major side gig was the trip-hop inspired Team Sleep and while his Crosses witch-house project was widely mocked, that’s more the fault of witch house than Moreno. Add in the sneaky Cocteau Twins homages and Cure covers, and it’s clear Moreno is very earnest about being taken seriously as a connoisseur of “pretty” music. But the anodyne idea of beauty established on Palms can’t help but sound tame and limited in light of how Pinkish Black, Blut aus Nord, Deafheaven or even Sigur Rós’ Kveikur are establishing ways for metal to double as makeout music without skimping on the heavy petting.